Dreaming of Duality
by Valakun
Summary: Harry thought he'd dreamt it all...but now he's sure of it! The bonds of friendship and fate overcome time for second chances and new adventures for our favorite trio...but which trio is the question. A HPxNaruto crossover. Post OotP. No Pairings.
1. Chapter 1

**Dreaming of Duality**

A fanfic by _Valakun_

I've decided, in the absense of my computer and story files, to spend the time I want to write writing something new. This is an idea i've had buzzing around in my head since I read a story called _**Reclaiming Life**_, by _Sangelide_. I fell in love with the idea of mixing two completely different stories together like that. The fact that the three main characters from each story actually work fairly well together is a great plus. Now I am attempting to write my own version of _**Reclaiming Life**_ going the opposite direction. Don't worry. I know most of that made no sense. If you feel the sudden urge to gain understanding go read RL yourself. If you want to hold onto the suspence a little longer read mine first. If you don't like the concept you'll have wasted less time on my story then you would have on Sangelide's.

I hope you enjoy.

_I didn't come up with the idea, i'm borrowing and expanding on Sangelide's idea. The two universes/stories used are the property of their appropriate authors, again i'm just borrowing. _

* * *

Harry James Potter thought he knew all about weird dreams. A magical mental connection to this century's most evil and murderous dark lord tended to produce some pretty disturbing dreams. Combine that with his own memories of a less than stellar life and multiple encounters with the afore mentioned dark lord and he was well on his way to many a sleepless night. Now throw in a recent bout of life or death combat and the loss of his godfather before his very eyes and then add a touch of prophesy as garnish and you had the ingredients for one messed up sleep deprived mind.

Yes Harry thought, or at least hoped, that he had seen just about everything his subconscious could throw at him. But now, as he lay awake in his ratty little bed at four in the morning in the spare bedroom of his aunt's house in Surrey, he really wondered what he'd done to prompt his subconscious to come up with the masterpiece he'd just spent the night as witness to. Bar none it had to be the oddest dream he'd had in his short life. Green flashes, laughter, torment, death. Those were the norm as far as he was concerned. This time there had been plenty of torment and death but nothing like what he was used to.

With a pained grunt he sat up in bed. The cool night air hit his sweat drenched chest, causing him to suck in a greedy breath of air as he pushed up and away from the bed and stumbled through the predawn gloom to his cluttered desk. He slumped into the chair and put on his glasses before carefully clicking on his desk light. With a quick glance he made sure the towel he'd shoved between the door and the floor earlier that night was still in place. He'd learned quickly that his uncle would spot the tell tale sliver of light that could seep out from under the door if he made a midnight foray to the kitchen or bathroom. And with Uncle Vernon the less he saw the better.

Having made sure the light was safely blocked from entering the hallway Harry turned back to his desk and pulled out a thin journal like book from under a stack of parchment. On its battered cover was scrawled one word.

'Dreams'

He sighed and flipped the book open. If one thing was keeping him sane this summer it was this book. For once he was grateful for one of Hermione's suggestions. His friend had suggested keeping a Dream Journal to help him work through the nightmares and visions he'd been plagued with since the end of fourth year. Ron had scoffed at the idea and Harry would have agreed with him if the idea hadn't struck a cord somewhere deep inside him. He hadn't agreed either way but after two days back at the Dursley's he'd pulled out an old school notebook, ripped out the used pages, and proceeded to fill its remaining pages night after night. Nights he knew he wouldn't be getting back to sleep he'd pulled out the notebook and a pen and worked his way through whatever dream he'd just had, putting it to words as best he could.

Surprisingly he'd found this to be quite helpful and had praised Hermione for her help in one of his owl posts to her. After a week he'd found he was having fewer reoccurring dreams.

Harry began expanding out, covering not just dreams but heavy topics that tended to plague him during the day. After two weeks he was getting at least six hours of fairly restful sleep in each night minus the occasional relapse or Voldemort induced vision.

Now, close to half way through the summer break, Harry felt more rested and better able to cope with his problems then ever before. He'd even gone two whole nights without having to even get out of bed to make an entry.

Harry glanced at his clock again and sighed for a second time. Of course it would have to be on his birthday that the streak ended. Then again this dream had been nothing like the typical fare.

He flipped open the book to the first unused page and began to examine the dream more closely. What caught his attention first was the memory like quality of it. The dream had been quite clear. None of the big jumps he usually associated with dreams and nightmares, at least that he could remember. It had almost been like watching a life play out. There had been emotional and physical feelings attached to it as well. For the first time outside of a vision he could remember being able to sense everything around him.

Harry scanned back and tapped his pen on the paper next to the words 'memory' and 'life'. The more he thought about it the more it seemed like another person's memory. And yet…and yet he felt like it was his own. He felt connected to these dream memories. He shook his head. How could they be his memories? Granted the boy the dream memories obviously belonged to looked a little like Harry. Dark haired, brooding at times, quiet. But beyond that they were different. This boy had been loved, this boy had been cared for, this boy had had a family…well at least up until the end that is.

He set his pen down and leaned back in his chair. Yes. That was one more thing he and the dream boy had in common. Both of them had lost their families. Harry shuddered and felt a stab of hatred and absolute fear; remnants of those last few moments of dream time. For once he was actually glad he hadn't been old enough to know what was going on when Voldemort had killed his family all those years ago.

This boy, the dream boy, had lived it in vivid technicolor. He'd seen his parents lying in pools of blood. He'd seen the streets around his home littered with the bodies of his extended family. The smashed windows, the broken doors, the blood soaked moon hanging low in the sky. It was all there.

And what was worse…far worse in Harry's opinion. The boy had come face to face with the killer and been spared.

Hatred's ghostly fingers curled around Harry's heart as he played the last scene through his mind again and again. The utter fear that had permeated the walls of the home had been so thick he could have cut it with a knife. The stench of death had clung to every surface. Seeing the boy's parents there, blood crawling away from their lifeless bodies as if in search of a new host.

The fear and hatred had been there, but above and beyond even those feelings was the loss and betrayal at the sight of the killer. The killer who had stood, sword still dripping with their blood, above the bodies the boy had once called mother and father.

Harry's fists clenched, his fingernails digging furrows in his palms, as he remembered with shocking clarity the moment of revelation. When the killer had stepped forward out of the gloom. When his face had come into view and the shock had been absolute. Finding, to your horror, that your own brother…the person you had looked up to with reverence and awe, was the one with the blood drenched sword standing before you.

Needless to say the betrayal had been absolute. And yet the boy had been spared. Told he was too weak to kill. Told he would live a life of self loathing, hatred, and loneliness; A life with only one goal. Revenge.

A deep throaty growl bubbled its way up through Harry's chest, directed at the life the boy had been practically forced into. Only a month ago Harry would have felt sorry for the boy and been glad he didn't have the same problem. Now, however, his situation was eerily similar.

The growl died off as Harry pushed away the emotions and stared out the window. It was a compelling dream to say the least. Of course if it was a dream Harry was sure his subconscious was well on its way to winning an award for best screenplay of the year. The details were just too plentiful and of such an amazing quality to be a simple dream. It wasn't a Vision either. His scar hadn't hurt and Voldemort and his Deatheaters hadn't featured at all.

The newly turned sixteen year old looked back down at the journal in front of him, looking past the words and the page they were written on to the one answer he saw left. If this life, this boy, wasn't just a dream or a vision, Harry was forced to conclude that they were, in fact, memories.

He sighed. That was a whole other can of worms that he didn't want to get into at the moment. Harry sighed, wrote a bit more, then shut the book. He flipped the light off, noting in the process that the sky outside his window had lightened to the point where he almost didn't need the desk lamp anymore to write. And with the dawn came the silhouettes of owls, the yearly procession of gift bearing birds from his friends and sudo-family that arrived every birthday morning. Harry smiled, forgetting for a while the strange night he'd just had, in favor of a much happier past time…present opening. The life and memories of the strange dream boy were pushed aside until later.

The first of the owls swooped in through the newly opened window, scattering the contents of Harry's desktop and, in the case of the dream journal, flipping it back open to its most recent entry. The last words on the page still fresh.

_Get to know Uchiha Sasuke…_

* * *

There. Done. That wasn't so bad now was it? Huh? What's that you say?...Hold on, you're muttering, please speak up. Oh! You wanna tar and feather me? Kinky... lol. I know some of you, my normal crowd, are wondering why I posted something like this in favor or updating BtE. If you haven't read my bio-page then you wouldn't know would you? 

Anyone interested or disgusted with this story? Please, leave me a review. Either way i'll know you've read it. I admit this is my first venture into HP writing land but i've been a long time reader here. I'll also admit I probably won't end up doing the HP cast credit compared to other authors I could name here.


	2. Chapter 2

I shouldn't be posting this. It's not done and all...that and I have no time to finish it...or anything for that matter. I don't know when i'll post more of any of my stories. I just don't have the time, or interest, for it any more. Oh I still love to write and create but it takes time that I don't have and focus I can't give. Real life and all. Sigh...i'll see if I can't post a more meaningful reason on my bio page soon.

* * *

Ronald Weasley wasn't usually a nightmare kinda guy. Oh there were spiders every now and then and, more recently, some very weird brains, but for the most part his dreams were pretty ordinary. Food, girls, getting locked out of the tower in nothing but his boxers…nothing out of the ordinary for a 16 year old male. But last night had been a different story. 

Thus Ron was doing something he wasn't used to doing. Usually when Ron occupied a bed he was either A) Dead to the world, B) In the infirmary(which in his opinion didn't have beds, only torture tables), or C) In the process of entering or exiting said bed. But this morning it was none of the above. This morning he was lying in bed staring at the ceiling.

He blamed the dream. Oh how he blamed the dream! He could smell breakfast downstairs. That wonderful aroma of well cooked bacon, toast, and a host of other scrumptious foodstuffs assaulted his nose in ways he considered almost criminal they were so good. And yet he remained staring at the ceiling.

Ron wondered, as he stared up at his poster plastered ceiling, if this was what Harry sometimes felt like when he had a particularly bad dream.

He shook his head. 'No', he thought, 'Harry has it much much worse then this. Hell he usually wakes up either screaming or rubbing his scar in pain. Nothing like this.'

After all he doubted Harry ever dreamt about being a little blond kid that would give his brothers a run for their money in the mischief department.

-Scene Cut-

Hermione blinked herself awake. She sat up, letting the book she'd left perched on her chest the night before slide down the covers to her lap, and stretched. 'What an odd night.' she thought as the stretch turned into a yawn. 'Don't think I've ever had a dream quite that strange.' She blinked again. 'Well I guess there was that one time...'

Her newly awakened upper brain functions cut off that line of thought abruptly as she returned her attention to the book now resting in her lap. She'd left off late last night and she was determined to finish the book today.

As her brain began to spin up and resume normal operations a subroutine took the cancelled line of thought, along with the attached dream memory, and moved it to a new subfolder of her 'Dreams and Odd Thoughts' storage area and marked it with a 'review at later date' notice.

She'd get to it at some point.

* * *

Thats all I got folks...sorry. 


End file.
